Chapter 2: Banished by Blood

My mom’s hand, which was handing me a fork, trembled. The fork clattered to the floor.

The metallic clang echoed in the silence. I could see her jaw clench, fighting back something she didn’t want to show.

The dining room was so quiet you could hear the fridge humming.

Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick louder, marking the seconds since I’d dropped my bombshell. Tick, tick.

My mom’s eyes went red as she stood beside me, starting to dab at her tears. But the tears never fell.

She fished a tissue from her pocketbook, dabbing at her eyes, but the tears didn’t fall. It was all for show.

At the head of the table, my dad, who’d been silent, finally spoke up. Here it comes.

He said, "We need to let your in-laws know about this. Their family can handle the medical bills. Let them deal with it."

He shot me a look full of disapproval.

His gaze was sharp, as if my illness were an inconvenience, not a tragedy. Nothing new.

"You need to keep it together. Don’t go running off for treatment and scaring your mother into another panic attack. You hear me?"

He sounded more worried about his own peace of mind than my health. The word "panic attack" hung in the air like a threat.

My mom wiped her face and started piling food onto my plate. Like that would help.

She heaped mashed potatoes and green beans, acting as if a full plate could fix everything.

"Your father’s right. No matter how bad things are, eat first. Food first, problems later."

She didn’t look at me, just kept scooping food, her hands moving faster than her words. She never stopped.

Lila also started putting food on my plate, smiling like a cheerful little girl. Too cheerful.

She pushed a roll toward me, her smile too bright, too forced. "Yeah, you get sick because you worry too much. Eat more, smile more, and you’ll be fine. That’s what Grandma always said."

Her words sounded like something she’d read on a Hallmark card, empty and rehearsed.

I didn’t touch my fork. Couldn’t.

The food in front of me blurred, unappetizing. I felt my stomach twist, not from hunger but from disappointment.

My eyes swept over each of them. Searching.

I let my gaze linger on each face, searching for any sign of real concern. All I found was discomfort and impatience.

"I’m not here to borrow money for treatment." I wanted them to know.

My voice was steady, but my hands clenched under the table.

"I just want to ask, can my sister donate bone marrow to me?" I waited.

The dining room went silent again. Colder this time.

This time, the silence was colder, heavier. Even the little boy seemed to sense something was wrong.

After a long moment, my dad slammed his fork on the table. I flinched.

The sound made everyone jump. He glared at me, his jaw set.

"Absolutely not!" I expected that.

He scowled. Typical.

His face turned red, veins bulging at his temples. "Don’t you know there’s risk in donating bone marrow? It’s dangerous, you know."

I gave a bitter smile. I couldn’t help it.

I couldn’t help it—a sharp, humorless laugh escaped me. "Isn’t it worth a little risk to save my life? Come on."

My dad stubbornly turned away. He always did.

He folded his arms, refusing to meet my gaze. "We can’t let your sister take that risk. Even a one percent chance is too much when it comes to Lila. Not for her."

I wasn’t surprised by his answer. I never was.

It was the same old story. I was always the extra, the expendable one. I wondered if he even remembered my birthday.

As the middle child, I was sent away to live with relatives. My dad was never happy about my birth—or my return.

I’d heard the whispers growing up—how I was the one they sent away, the one who never quite fit. I learned early on that love here was conditional.

But at least my mom and Lila had always been sort of kind to me. Sort of.

They’d offered small kindnesses—a pat on the head, a smile at Christmas—but nothing that lasted. Still, I’d clung to those scraps like a stray dog.

I turned to look at my mom. One last chance.

She was already crying. Of course.

Her shoulders shook, but her tears felt as empty as her words. I waited, hoping for something real.

I looked at her hopefully, thinking maybe my illness would finally break down the wall between us. Maybe.

Maybe, for my sake, she’d come over and hug me, like she always did with Lila.

But instead, through her tears, she spoke even more heartless words. Figures.

She said, "Sweetheart, life and death are in God’s hands. No matter how much you hate it, you have to accept it! That’s just how it is."

She clutched her chest, her voice full of sorrow. All for show.

She pressed a hand to her heart, as if the drama of it all might earn her sympathy from the room.

"If you’re sick, why drag your sister down too? If I lose both daughters at once, how am I supposed to go on? Think about me."

It was only then that I truly woke up. Just one. What my mother feared wasn’t losing two daughters at once.

She was only afraid of losing Lila. Always her.

The realization stung, but it was also freeing. I finally saw where I stood.

I lost interest and turned my gaze to Lila, the one this was all about. Always her.

She sat there, her expression unreadable, her hands folded neatly in her lap. I wondered if she felt any guilt at all.

Ever since I was brought home, Lila had been relatively kind to me. Relatively.

She’d shared her toys, let me tag along sometimes. But her kindness always had a limit, a line I wasn’t allowed to cross.

She always said the right things, maybe because she was raised in a bubble. A perfect daughter.

Her words were always polished, safe. She knew how to keep the peace, to be the good daughter.

At least when Aaron bullied me, she’d step in and scold him. Sometimes.

She’d scold him, but never too harshly. Just enough to look good in front of our parents.

So I still held onto one last sliver of hope. Just one.

I wanted to believe she’d see me as a sister, just this once. Please.

But now, Lila’s usual gentle attitude was gone. She glared at me, eyes blazing.

Her face twisted in anger, her hands clenched into fists. I’d never seen her like this before. Never.

"Casey, you’re doing this on purpose! You always do this."

She stood up, clearly emotional, like she’d been waiting to say this for a long time. Maybe she had.

Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down. "I’ve wanted to say this forever. You always act like our parents wronged you by sending you away, so ever since you came back, you’ve been sulky and love making everyone miserable. You know it’s true."

She jabbed a finger in my direction, her words tumbling out in a rush. She meant it.

"You always act timid, like you suffered so much out there. Don’t think we don’t know—you just want our parents to feel guilty. Isn’t that right?"

She was so angry her chest was heaving, as if she were the one suffering. Funny.

Her breath came in sharp gasps, her cheeks flushed with righteous indignation.

After a moment, she fought back her sobs and continued. She wasn’t done.

She wiped at her eyes, but her glare never softened. "But enough is enough. We’ve put up with your little stunts, but now you bring up something as big as bone marrow donation like it’s nothing. Don’t you just want to make our parents feel trapped? Seriously, Casey?"

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. "If they refuse, you blame them for being heartless. If they agree, they risk losing two daughters. It’s not fair."

"How can you be so cruel? Why can’t you stand to see us happy?" She really believed it.

As she spoke, Lila hugged my mom. Of course.

She wrapped her arms around her, as if shielding her from me. The gesture felt theatrical, like a scene from a bad family drama.

And after hearing her words, my mom finally sobbed out her grievance. Right on cue.

She leaned into Lila, her voice trembling with self-pity. "Lila, that’s enough. It’s all your father’s fault. He just had to have both a son and a daughter. Otherwise... You know how he is."

She didn’t finish, but everyone knew what she meant. So did I.

The words hung in the air, heavy and ugly. I felt the weight of them settle on my shoulders.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been born. Simple as that.

Aaron also stood up. They flanked my mom, both glaring at me with the same resentment. United at last.

He squared his shoulders, his jaw clenched. For once, he and Lila were united—against me.

Lila lifted her head, looking righteous. Always the hero.

She wiped her tears and looked me dead in the eye. "Casey, I won’t give you the chance to hurt our parents. I’m saying it loud and clear—I will not donate bone marrow to you. No way."

She protectively held my mom. Her shield.

She squeezed her mother’s hand, as if to say she’d always choose her over me.

"This has nothing to do with our parents. If people talk, don’t say they’re heartless. It’s my decision. I’m scared my mom would be devastated if she lost both of us. That’s just how it is."

She straightened her back, her voice unwavering. "I’m making the call. I absolutely refuse to donate. I’ll take the blame! End of story."

Lila’s expression was so determined, you’d think she was making some heroic sacrifice. Martyr complex.

She looked around the table, daring anyone to challenge her. No one did.

I pinched the test results in my pocket and couldn’t help but laugh softly. Bitter.

The sound startled even me. It was sharp, bitter, edged with years of disappointment.

After a while, I stared at Lila and asked, word by word, slow and steady,

"Are you sure, no matter what, you won’t donate?" One last chance.

I held her gaze, waiting for any flicker of doubt. There was none.

Lila gently wiped my mom’s tears, her expression even more like a martyr. Saint Lila.

She pressed her lips together, her chin lifted in defiance. "Absolutely not!" she said. No way.

"If you want to blame someone, blame me. Don’t take it out on our parents. I want to get pregnant. I can’t give up my child’s life for yours. You get it, right?"

She spoke with the conviction of someone who’d already made peace with her choice. I wondered if she’d ever lose sleep over it.

I laughed until I cried, looking at her with pity. She didn’t see.

The tears came hot and fast, but I didn’t bother to wipe them away. For once, I let them see me break.

Then I said softly, "That’s right. Well said. You can’t sacrifice your own child to save someone else. Nobody would."

My voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried across the table. I saw a flicker of confusion in Lila’s eyes.

Lila didn’t get it and lowered her head to comfort my mom. She never did.

She stroked my mom’s hair, whispering reassurances. The irony was almost too much to bear.

On the other side, my mom was already sobbing uncontrollably. Drama queen.

She buried her face in Lila’s shoulder, her cries loud and theatrical. The whole room seemed to revolve around her grief.

She leaned in the arms of her two children, as if she were the one with leukemia and no one cared. Always the victim.

She rocked back and forth, moaning about fate and bad luck, as if my illness were just another burden she had to carry.

She weakly stroked her chest. Milking it.

Her fingers traced circles over her heart, as if that could ease the ache she claimed to feel.

"It’s all your fault, Mark. You sinned by insisting on having both a son and a daughter! You just had to."

Her words were a knife in my back, twisted by regret she’d never truly owned.

My dad, annoyed by her complaints, suddenly slapped the table and stood up. Here we go.

The sound made the dishes rattle. He glared at her, then at me, as if we were both problems he couldn’t solve.

He walked over to me, pulled out a thick Hallmark card from his pocket. Really?

And, as if dismissing a beggar, slapped it down in front of me.

The gesture was cold, final. The card landed with a soft thud, the only kindness in the room. Almost funny.

"Whether you’re really sick or faking it, take the money and get out. I’m done."

His words were ice-cold, each one a slap in the face.

"If you make your mother sick from stress, don’t blame me for disowning you! You hear me?"

He pointed toward the door, making it clear I’d worn out my welcome. He meant it.

The card in front of me was beautifully packaged, clearly prepared with care. For someone else.

I picked it up, feeling the weight of it. The paper was thick, the envelope sealed with a gold sticker. For a second, I wondered if he’d actually thought about me at all.

When I picked it up and looked closely, there was neat handwriting on it: Not mine.

[Wishing our dear daughter a wonderful performance. Have fun.] Wrong daughter.

The words blurred, the ink smudged by my tears. I wondered if he’d even remembered which daughter he was writing to. Probably not.

I smiled at myself and looked up to ask. Why not?

"If you give me this money to save my life, won’t it ruin your daughter’s trip to Europe? Just asking."

My voice was calm, but I could feel the sarcasm burning beneath the surface. He didn’t care.

My dad looked at me with disgust, his tone icy cold. Nothing new.

He didn’t bother to hide it. "No need for sarcasm. You’re the one who doesn’t know her place. If you insist on fairness, I don’t mind cutting ties with you. Don’t push me."

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "I never wanted to have you, but after you were born, I still found someone to raise you. You never went hungry or cold. You should be grateful and stop making trouble. You get it?"

He resolutely turned away. Done.

He crossed his arms, his back to me. "I’ve always listened to your mother and tolerated you. But today you’re being unreasonable, so don’t blame me for not recognizing you as my daughter anymore. That’s final."

He finally gave the order to kick me out. So be it.

The words hung in the air, final and unforgiving. No one spoke up for me.

The dining room went quiet again. Of course.

It was the kind of silence that settles after a storm—heavy, expectant. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting to see what I’d do next.

They all silently made way for me, quietly watching. No one stopped me.

Chairs scraped back, creating a path to the door. No one offered a hand, not even a word of comfort.

Waiting for me to take the money and leave, like some beggar. I wouldn’t.

I stood there, the card in my hand, feeling smaller than ever. It was clear I was nothing more than an outsider here.

At that moment, I finally understood everything. Crystal clear.

It was like a curtain lifting, revealing the truth I’d always suspected. I would never be enough for them.

No matter how humble I was, I would never be part of this family. Never.

It didn’t matter how many times I tried, how low I bowed. Their love was reserved for someone else.

But honestly, I didn’t care about this family anymore. Not anymore.

For the first time, I felt a strange sense of relief. I was free.

So when I looked up again, I shed my old caution. No more.

I straightened my shoulders, meeting their eyes without fear. I was done begging.

I calmly weighed the card in my hand and slowly stood up. Ready.

My heels clicked against the hardwood, echoing in the silence. I felt taller, stronger than I’d ever been.

Wearing heels, I was already as tall as my father. Eye to eye.

I looked him straight in the eye and quietly asked. One last question.

"Since you keep saying you never wanted me, then why was I born? Just tell me."

I let the question hang there, daring him to answer. The room felt electric, every eye fixed on us.

"...Was it that you couldn’t control yourself, or am I someone else’s kid? Which is it?"

My father’s pupils shrank suddenly, so shocked he couldn’t speak. Got him.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For once, he looked unsure.

His lips trembled, and only then did he finally raise his hand to slap me. Expected.

He lunged, his hand swinging wide, but I was ready this time.

I dodged, making him stumble. Not this time.

He caught himself on the table, glaring at me with new fury. Burning.

Then I pointed at my mother with my chin. Her turn.

"And you. Yeah, you."

I locked eyes with her, refusing to back down. No more fear.

"Don’t pretend to cry now. If you didn’t want me, why weren’t you more determined back then? Seriously."

I let the accusation hang, daring her to deny it. She wouldn’t.

"Were you forced when you were pregnant with me? At a hundred and forty pounds, couldn’t you fight back? Just answer."

My mom finally stopped sobbing. Show’s over.

She stared at me, her mouth open in shock. The act was over.

She couldn’t keep up the act of always feeling sorry for me. Not anymore.

Her face hardened, her eyes flashing with anger. There she was.

She trembled with rage, pointing at me with a shaking finger. Shaking.

Her hand shook so badly she could barely keep it steady. "...Ungrateful child, I gave birth to all of you—how could there be such a difference! I don’t get it."

Her voice rose, shrill and desperate, as if shouting could erase the truth. It couldn’t.

Lila, seeing her mother insulted, cried and threw herself into my mom’s arms. Always the protector.

She sobbed loudly, clutching my mom as if to shield her from my words. The rest of the family gathered around them, closing ranks.

Aaron looked like he wanted to hit me and lunged for my wrist. Here we go.

He grabbed at me, his grip tight and angry. I twisted away, but he held on.

Their partners jumped in to break up the fight. Chaos.

Chairs scraped, voices rose. Someone spilled a glass of wine. The whole scene dissolved into chaos.

The dining room was chaos. Pure.

It was a mess of shouting, shoving, tears, and accusations. I felt someone’s hand in my hair, another at my arm.

I was pulled and shoved, and finally got slapped hard by my father. Again.

The blow snapped my head to the side. My cheek burned, and I tasted blood.

My face whipped to the side, and warm blood trickled from my nose. Hot.

I wiped it away, refusing to let them see me cry. My hands shook, but I stood my ground.

"Get out!" my father shouted. Now.

His voice boomed, echoing off the walls. "From now on, we’re done. The Mason family doesn’t have an ungrateful daughter like you! You hear me?"

My hand instinctively went to my lower belly. Safe.

I pressed my palm gently, relief flooding me when I felt the steady thrum of life beneath my skin.

Thankfully, everything was fine there. Thank God.

I let out a shaky breath, promising myself I’d protect this little one no matter what.

Only then did I realize just how much I already cared about the little life inside me. So much.

I smiled through the pain, hope flickering in my chest for the first time all night.

Since this was what I wanted, I could never let it down. Never.

I straightened my back, feeling stronger than I ever had. I was done begging for love that was never mine.

So I lifted my face and stared at him fiercely. No more fear.

I met his glare with one of my own, refusing to look away. I held.

"Fine, you said it. I’m no longer the daughter of the Mason family. That’s it."

My voice was steady, unflinching. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

My father looked at me with disgust, his face cold and stern. Nothing new.

He sneered, as if daring me to argue. "That’s right, I said it. My word is final! End of story."

I wiped my face hard. Clean slate.

I swiped away the blood and tears, leaving nothing but resolve.

"Good! From now on, our lives and deaths have nothing to do with each other. Whoever asks for help first is the loser. Deal?"

I let the words hang, a challenge thrown into the middle of the room. No turning back.

My father stiffened and said nothing. Lila cried out. Predictable.

She wiped her nose, her voice shrill. "Yes! Whoever asks for help first is a coward, and may lightning strike them! You hear that?"

"Why aren’t you leaving? Do you want to make my mom die of stress? Get out."

Her words were a final push, meant to shove me out the door. I was ready.

I smiled, satisfied, pulled the test results from my pocket, and tossed them onto the card.

The papers fluttered down, landing between us like a silent verdict. Judgment.

"Very good, Lila, remember what you said today. Don’t forget."

I locked eyes with her, making sure she understood. There would be no going back. Ever.

"I won’t take this money. You might need it! Keep it."

I left the card and the test results on the table, turned on my heel, and walked out—leaving behind the family I’d never really had, and stepping into the life I was finally ready to claim.